


Six Times Katniss Was Happy She Chose the Baker

by soafterr



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: Canon Compliant, Day 3 - gluttony, F/M, Fluff and Angst, One Shot, Post-Mockingjay, Tumblr: promptsinpanem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-21
Updated: 2013-10-21
Packaged: 2017-12-30 02:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soafterr/pseuds/soafterr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Canon, Post-Mockingjay. There are advantages to being with the Baker.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Six Times Katniss Was Happy She Chose the Baker

**1.  kneading**

I roll over, expecting to find the warmth of Peeta’s body next to mine, but instead find cold, empty sheets. They smell like him.

A wide smile spreads across my face as I think about last night. Just over a week ago, everything changed between Peeta and I. Since his homecoming eight months ago, we have been slowly growing back together, leading up to the moment last Thursday night, when the hunger took over and there was nothing to stop us.

The past few days have been some of the easiest I can remember in a long time. Most nights we stay up late talking or exploring each other. For now, the nightmares and the flashbacks can’t touch us.

I slip out of bed, clad in only Peeta’s t-shirt, and tiptoe downstairs. Halfway down the steps, I am hit with the strong smell of fresh bread.

I lean against the frame of the door to the kitchen. Peeta hasn’t noticed me yet, and I like watching him like this, baking, doing the thing he loves. He’s wearing just his pajama pants and I realize that, together, we complete his pajama set.

The muscles in his back ripple as he kneads the dough. I’m not sure how long I stare at this before I decide to make my presence known.

“Good morning,” I say as I come up behind him, and wrap my arms around his middle. I don’t like to startle him, out of fear of causing a flashback.

“Hey,” I can hear the smile in his voice. I press a kiss between his shoulder blades.

“I haven’t seen you bake in a while.”

He chuckles, “Yes, well, you’ve kept me kind of preoccupied. I’m behind on my orders. I haven’t seen you hunt for a few days either.”

“Dr. Aurelius will not be pleased with us.” I place another kiss to his shoulder and move to the barstool on the other side of the counter, facing Peeta.

“Haymitch said the people of District 12 are hungry…” His face cringes, “He winked, too. I think he knows about us.”

I groan and cover my face with my hands. I should have known better than to think we could keep something from Haymitch.

To distract me from my embarrassment, I’m sure, Peeta hands me a plate of freshly made cheese buns and talks animatedly about the construction on the bakery.

Halfway through his story about the new piping, I begin to get absorbed in the way his hands and arms flex as he kneads. It reminds me of the way he palmed my breasts last night. There is flour up to his elbows, but I can still see some of the blonde hair of his forearm. The majority of his burn scars are on his arms and shoulders, from pulling me out of the fire that took my sisters life. There is a small mark on the side his neck from where I bit him in the heat of the moment. His face takes on an expression of pride and excitement when he talks about the bakery. If you look _very_ closely, one of his eyebrows grew back slightly darker than the other one.

“I’m in love with you,” I blurt out, around a mouth full of food.

I’ve said the words before, of course. I told Peeta _‘real’_ when he asked if I loved him that night. The next morning I managed an actual ‘ _I love you_.’ Something about adding the ‘in’ cements the statement, though. I am in love with you. I will always be in love with you.

Peeta stops what he’s doing, and I watch his smile slowly spread from ear to ear. “I know. And I’m in love with you.”

I blush and break away from the intensity in his eyes, instead focusing on my hands in my lap, as I swallow down my breakfast. This is still new and exciting and scary.

“You want to help me with these orders? Since it’s your fault I’m behind and all.”

I grin and nod, lifting myself up from my seat to join him.

“Okay, remember what I’ve taught you?”

**2\. toasting**

It’s when we’re lying in bed, just coming down from our contact high, when I say it.

“Why aren’t we married?”

It’s been two years since Peeta’s return to District 12, and we’ve been together for almost as long. The topic of marriage hasn’t been discussed much between us; although, there is no doubt that we want to spend the rest of our lives together.

Lately, I’ve been wondering, what’s even stopping us?

He knows my flaws and I know his. Having children, long down the road, is a discussion that has lead to a number of fights and late night conversations, but we’ve reached a compromise. Peeta accepts that he may never have them and I acknowledge that I can’t know for sure how I’ll feel in the future. After all, three years ago I wouldn’t have _wanted_ to get married, like I do at the moment.

Peeta leans up on his elbow, cradling his head, and stares down at me intensely. He must see something in my face, something that tells him I’m serious. His eyes widen for half a second as recognition passes over them. After minutes of silence, he finally answers, in a whisper, “Because I haven’t asked you yet.”

“Ask me,” I whisper back.

His eyes are alight with emotion. His mouth breaks into a goofy grin and I can’t help but mirror it. He lowers himself to my lips and kisses me, long and slow and passionate. Against my lips, he murmurs the words, “Marry me,” and I answer between kisses.

Caught up in the moment, Peeta is ready for round two, but – while I’m certainly tempted to indulge him – I insist we make things official now. We slip out of bed and throw on the pajamas that we flung to the floor hours earlier. Like children, we trample down the stairs, holding hands and giggling.

Peeta’s face looks brighter than I’ve ever seen it. He presses me against the wall and kisses me senseless. When he pulls away, with my face cradled in his hands, he softly asks, “Are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely.”

“You just want to do a toasting? Now? No wedding, no fanfare?”

“This is all I need. All I want.” I lean up and kiss the side of his jaw, up to his ears. Sucking on his lobe never fails to leave Peeta equal parts relaxed and aroused.

“Okay,” he chuckles, “But we’re going ring shopping tomorrow. And I guess we’ll have to stop by the justice building. Tomorrow. Or today, technically.”

I nibble softly at his ear and whisper seductively, “Shut up and get the bread, Peeta.”

He laughs and pulls away, dragging me into the kitchen behind him. Despite the late hour, Peeta convinces me that we should bake our own toasting bread together.

After over a year of living together, bread making is nothing new for us; however, something about knowing it’s intent, knowing what we’ll use it for tonight, makes the process feel extraordinarily special and intimate.

From behind me, Peeta places his large hands over mine, and together we knead the dough. When he sprinkles in nuts and raisins, my eyes water and I let out a nervous laugh.

Later, In front of our living room fireplace, we make promises and declarations of love that are meant for our ears only. The bread we toast and feed to each other represents our past and now, our future.

**3\. owning**

Hand in hand, we stroll toward the lively _Mellark’s Bakery_ , where Peeta starts his shift in twenty minutes. It’s a rainy Tuesday afternoon, and my prospects for catching anything decent are low, so Peeta has convinced me to accompany him to work.

Rainy days are often the busiest days for the bakery, as everyone is seeking a warm, dry place to hide, and the smell of fresh bread pulls them in. Despite my protests that I would only slow things down and be a distraction, Peeta insisted that he _needed_ my help just as much as he wanted it.

“Isn’t that what you pay your workers for?” I had said, “You know, I can always tell when your manipulating me, your face and voice get increasingly adorable.”

“I think that just my naturally adorable face and voice, Katniss.”

Neither of us mind the rain, as we converse about every day things like, _“We’re running low on entrails for Buttercup,”_ and, _“Maybe you should paint something for the downstairs’ bathroom, where the walls are a little bare.”_

Peeta unlocks the back entrance and holds the door for me, gesturing an _after you_ motion with his hands. As I walk in, I am immediately hit with the heat of the ovens, and I feel myself shiver from the change in temperature. 

From behind me, Peeta throws an apron over my head and ties the back for me. He gently and playfully tugs on my braid as he walks away to begin taking over his last employee’s shift.

I open the kitchen doors and move toward the register, where Peeta has asked me to restock the display with pastries. All around, I hear the humming of several conversations going on at once. Every table, seat, and chair is full. On the sofa is a young couple, chatting over hot chocolate and bread. There is a toy chest on the floor where a few children play games, in between taking mouthfuls of cookies. At the table by the door, a very pregnant woman is snickering with a friend while they share a small cheesecake. For every person that leaves, another one takes his or her place.

It seems as though all of District 12 is in this very shop.

Seam and Merchant (although those titles don’t exist anymore), even people who have moved here from other districts, all eat together in Peeta’s bakery. They look so well-fed and healthy and safe; it’s stunning.

For the rest of the day, Peeta, the few employees that are on shift, and I work tirelessly to keep the customers satisfied. When the rain finally stops, the crowd slowly trickles out.

“Campbell, Katniss and I are going to take our break. Can you handle the few customers who are left?”

“No problem, Boss. Not long before closing time, it should be pretty deserted.”

As soon as I shut Peeta’s office door behind me, he collapses on the couch. When I don’t immediately follow, he hold his arms out to me like a child and pouts. I roll my eyes and join him, so that we’re lying side-by-side, facing each other. We twine our arms around each other and I bury my face in Peeta’s neck.

“Thanks for helping out today,” Peeta murmurs. He kisses the top of my head, and whispers, “I like having you around.”

“I like being around,” I mumble into his neck. “Your bakery, it’s like… It’s like the heart of District 12. You bring people together and feed them and… I’m just really proud of you, Peeta.”

“Thank you, Wife. I should remind you though, what’s mine is yours. It’s your bakery too.”

We’ve only been married a few months, but I had never considered this. The thought makes me smile. _Our bakery._ I untuck my head from the crook of his neck and kiss him lightly on the lips.

When I pull away, I teasingly whisper, “In that case, Husband, I’m going to need you to make more cheese buns, or you’re in deep shit with the owner.”

**4\. craving**

“How are you feeling?”

It’s a question I’m sick of hearing. Ever since we first found out I was pregnant, Peeta has been quite maddening about making sure the baby and I are comfortable. I don’t know about the baby, but I’m certainly not.

In the eight weeks that I’ve been with child, I have yet to find a food I can stomach. So far I’ve only lost weight, instead of gaining. It puts Peeta so on-edge, I’m worried about him working himself into a flashback.

“The same as always. Nauseous…” I try to think of something that will calm him. “Nothing’s come up yet,” I lie. I’m currently sitting on the cold tile floor next to the toilet, but I cleaned up my mess before Peeta came in to check on me, so I doubt he suspects me of dishonesty. He’s sitting on the edge on the bathtub, eyebrows knitted together in concern.

“And you called your mother? Did she have any other suggestions?”

I scrunch my eyes in annoyance. He knows I called my mother because he was in the room. And he knows we’ve tried everything she’s suggested. But, if asking these questions that he already knows the answers to makes him feel the tiniest bit useful, I’ll humor him.

“We’ve tried ginger tea, peppermint tea, and chewing fennel seeds,” I sigh as I continue down the list. “I’m getting more sleep, staying hydrated, and getting fresh air, but staying away from hunting.” Not like I’d try to, nothing has made me retch faster than the smell of blood. “That’s everything, I think…”

“And she said this is normal?”

He’s trying to stay calm but I can see the anxiety in his eyes. I take his hand, and gently caress the back of his palm. He told me once that made him feel safe. Softly, I answer, “Yes. It’s normal. She said it should be over by my 12th week.”

He sighs and slides down next to me on the floor. His arm wraps around my waist and I lean my head on his shoulder. “I miss food,” I confess. “I miss bread.”

From the corner of my vision, I see his eyebrows shoot up. I guess it is a breakthrough for me. In all this time, I haven’t even wanted to look at food. The last few nights Peeta has had to eat his dinner at the bakery before coming home, so the smell and sight of it wouldn’t make me sick.

“You think you can handle something? How about a nice, plain, warm loaf of French bread, how does that sound?”

I think about the sound bread makes when you break it in half, and I feel my mouth water. “Mmm. Let’s try it. Worse case scenario, I throw up again.”

Peeta gives me a look. “I mean… for the first time today,” I try to recover.

He just shakes his head and smiles, “If you thought I believed that lie for a second, you’re nuts.” He gets up and lifts me from the ground.

In the kitchen, I watch Peeta prepare my loaf. I keep a trashcan next to me just in case, but the smells don’t bother me. Every so often, he looks up from his kneading to check my face for signs of discomfort.

When it’s finished, Peeta reminds me to take small bites and chew slowly. It tastes wonderful, and I see my husband visibly relax when I continue taking bites. When 30 minutes pass without me feeling nauseated, we embrace tightly.

“I’m so relieved, Katniss,” he whispers into my hair.

We stay like that, wrapped around each other, for a few minutes, until I remind Peeta of how hungry I am for more. For the rest of the night and in the coming weeks, I fill up on so much bread that Peeta likes to joke I’m running him out of business.

**5\. starving**

“Look, Buddy,” I hear Peeta say to our son as he points at me, “look who’s home.”

Atem turns his little head toward my direction and shouts “Mommy!” as he charges at me. I put my bow and game bag down and when he flings himself into my arms, I pick him up off the ground and blow raspberries on his neck. His laughter is one of my favorite sounds.

I look over at Peeta, who is still sitting in on our lawn, smiling at the two of us, next to the walkway to our home. I then notice the chalk in his hands, and immediately I can tell which drawings belong to my children and which were done my husband.

“Well, what do we have here?” I ask Atem, and he tells me all about his pictures. My favorite is the one of Haymitch, which has me laughing for a full five minutes. After I finish praising his artwork, I look to Peeta and ask about our daughter.

“She just went inside to go to the bathroom. You should go get her so she can show you all her drawings.”

I turn around and pick up my bow and game bag and head toward the house. As I walk past Peeta, I run my hand through his hair, as a friendly hello, or a gentle reminder I haven’t forgotten him.

“Zuri?” I call out, as I set my hunting gear down. I head toward the kitchen, and as soon as I open the door, my eyes land on her guilty face. She’s eating a cookie in secret, an hour before dinner.

“Zuri, what are you doing? You’re going to spoil your dinner!”

“Aww, but Mom, I was starving.”

The words stop me in my tracks.

I close my eyes and for a moment all I can see is Prim, just after my father died, sickly-looking and famished. For a moment, all I can remember is going to sleep next to my seven-year-old sister and hearing the growling of our empty stomachs.

When I open my eyes, I am brought back to the present. Zuri’s big blue eyes show her curiosity and nervousness. She thinks she’s going to get in trouble for stealing the cookie, but I’m more stuck on her word choice.

I walk toward her slowly and get down on my knees so we are face to face.

“Zuri, please don’t say that word again.”

“Which one?”

“Starving. You can say you’re hungry, but please don’t say you are starving. Your daddy and I do so much to keep you safe and healthy,” I raise my hand and tuck a strand of her hair– identical to my own– behind her ear. I feel the tears building in my eyes. “I hunt, and Daddy bakes, so we are always going to make sure you get enough food. Okay?”

She nods her head.

“Okay. Next time, you be patient and wait for dinner.” I take the cookie from her hand, “And you can finish the rest of your cookie after we eat. Go outside and play with your brother now.”

As soon as she closes the door behind her, I begin to cry. For what reason, I’m not even sure. A few minutes pass before I hear the distinct sound of Peeta’s footsteps. I feel his strong arms wrap around me and I collapse into them. He whispers soothing words to me, but it’s a while before I can calm down enough to hear them.

“Zuri told me what happened. She’s never going to starve, Katniss. We’ll make sure of it.”

**6\. frosting**

After hunting an acceptable amount of game, I decide to cut my day in the woods several hours short, instead favoring a visit to the Bakery today. It’s a Saturday, and since the kids aren’t in school, they’re ‘helping’ their father with the family business, while I catch dinner.

As I make it toward the glass front doors, I can see no one inside and the sign on the door tells me they’re on a lunch break.

With my key, I unlock the door and lock it behind me. The bell that usually alerts Peeta of a new customer broke off last week, so my invasion goes unnoticed. I hear the murmurs of familiar voices coming from the kitchen and I decide to surprise my family today.

“And what makes the _‘ta-ta-ta’_ sound?”

I gently open the swinging door to the kitchen and peak my head in. Peeta, Zuri, and Atem all seem to be crowded around something.

“’T!’” I hear my daughter shout out.

“Very good, Zuri, but you already know your alphabet. We’re leaving these questions to your brother, so he can practice, remember?” I hear my husband admonish, and her face deflates a little, until Peeta hands her a piping of green icing and she immediately perks up. Gently, I see Zuri ice a ‘T’ onto what looks like a cake.

“Now, Atem,” Peeta asks, “What comes next in ‘Katniss?’ Kat _n-n-n-n-_ iss.”

I suddenly remember the day of the week. It’s the end of April, and my 40th birthday is next week.

“’N!’” he calls out excitedly.

“Good job, Peanut!” Peeta kisses the top of Atem’s head and, from my awkward angle at the door, I can see his face, glowing with pride. He takes the piping back from Zuri and hands it to our son, “And it’s your turn to ice this letter.”

Carefully, Peeta’s hands steady Atem’s arms, and together they create the ‘N’ of my name.

I begin to cry. Silently, so that no one notices, but I’m crying nonetheless. Their thoughtfulness touches me.

Feelings of guilt wash over me as I realize I’ve ruined their surprise. Soundlessly, I back away from the door. It’s not until I look back that I remember that the door swings, and I cross my fingers that no one takes notice to it.

It doesn’t work.

“Hey, kids, I have to go check something up front real quick. Stay right here. _Do not_ touch the ovens, _do not_ touch the sharp silverware, and _do not_ touch the cake. Got it? I’ll be back in three seconds.”

I freeze in my tracks, knowing there is no escape. He’s already seen me.

Closing the door gently behind him, so it doesn’t swing, Peeta meets my wet, guilty eyes and smiles, shaking his head. I move into him for a hug.

He kisses the top of my head, and rubs my back slowly. “Pretend to be surprised, okay?” he whispers, “They’re very excited to give this to you.” I nod against his chest. “These are happy tears, right?” I chuckle through the tears and nod again.

When I’ve calmed down a little, I mumble against his chest, “Why are they writing my name out?”

“It’s going to say ‘Happy 40th Birthday Mommy/Katniss!’ It’s a mouthful, but I wanted Atem to get some practice with his letters. And it’s a big cake.”

The thought makes me smile, and I can feel the tears forming again. This time instead, I wrap my arms around his neck and lean up toward him to kiss him. We stay like that, kissing, for a few seconds, until I break away to say, “Thank you.”

I wonder what he thinks I’m thanking him for. Thank you for the kiss and being here when I was crying. Thank you for being thoughtful and giving me this surprise. Thank you for making me feel safe enough that I could finally have these beautiful people we call our children.

It’s all of it. And he seems to know.

“You’re very welcome. Now go home and calm down. _You didn’t see anything today_.”

“Okay,” I wipe my face of tears and try to compose myself. “Tell them how much I’ll love it.”

“I already have.”

“Well, tell them again. Tell them it will make me so happy, I’ll cry.”

**Author's Note:**

> My A/N not from tumblr: This is my first endeavor into fanfiction, so a big thank you to anyone who reads/likes/reblogs/reviews/whatever. Also, thank you to mellarksloaves(Everlark_Pearl on here) for answering pregnancy questions, giving me great tips, and letting me use her toastbaby names. Lastly, thank you to thequeenpatches, who I originally started writing this for, for prereading/cheerleading. 
> 
> follow me on tumblr at soafterr.tumblr.com :)


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